Consider the eyes of a boy who has the heart
to cram a Black Cat firecracker down the throat of a gecko.
Consider his hands, the giddy rush as he tries
and tries to light the match that will ice his blood.
Consider his laughter, the sound of explosion,
the slivers of lizard that land in his hair.
Consider my son, hours old, bruised
from the battle of breaking away from me
as I consider how to keep him
from stealing my lighter, from sneaking out back,
my love in his pocket,
M-80 in his hand.